Days of Future Past

There are days that I am content just updating my iPod, due to my dereliction in doing it regularly. By the time I finished, I had practically every Sonic the Hedgehog soundtrack uploaded, leaving an earworm day and night. I realize that this admission strips my right to tell others to grow up. I mean, I’m a grown ass man listening to the stuff from my childhood to get psyched up when I’m out of bed. But I maintain those people aren’t human if Green Hill Zone doesn’t put a smile on their face. And screw them if they were Mario fans. Long live Sega. Sorta.

I figured a lot of change would be occurring since my death and rebirth. While there have been differences, I find myself more bitter than I was previously. I don’t know whether I’m wrong for thinking success is my birthright, but I can’t be faulted since everything else came easy, or without too many grey hairs on my head. Unfortunately, it feels like I’m living in the same world despite taking dynamite to the status quo. Me not being happy is not what I intended, and should not be the case. In reality, nothing’s changed. I’m still in Southern California. Still a wonderful salsa dancer. Still a flamboyant gamecock. Still single. The only difference is that I have improved physically and I look gorgeous in a pink shirt. GORGEOUS. That reminds me, I need more goofy pants for daily wear; jeans will never get the same reaction garnered by obscure patterned pants.

Sorry, I digressed. I sit around watching others pair off, flirt, mingle, and I shake my head, cursing the gods with my shaking fist. I see the capitalized honorific “Baby”, “Girl”, “Honey”, and the like…and I scream. Roar. None of these are in approval. A quarter of my rage stems from the improper assignment of proper nouns; the other rage comes from my desire to want to abuse the English language. Try out different clubs (done that). Talk to girls, put yourself out there (see the note about my pants). Your time will come (why isn’t my time now?). As much as I hate things and want to get better, reality starts to dawn on me: leave.

My professor has repeatedly told me she would love to send me out of state. I’ve rebuked her enough times to say that Alabama scares me, Arizona’s too hot, and Texas is too independent. If the Thunder was an expansion team instead of being stolen from Seattle, I’d take Oklahoma. Plus, there is the idea that I have friends and family here…which doesn’t anchor me here solely because all of my friends have what I want, and my absence would not cause a negative detriment. They’re all attached, happily so, and that’s what I want. The ones who aren’t attached annoy the shit out of me because I can’t figure out what they’re doing with themselves in other areas of their lives. If I spent three, four, five years away, I’m sure that I wouldn’t be missed. I haven’t done anything noteworthy for anyone to shed a tear.

It troubles me to think that, because the reality is that my provided chaos makes things work. However, the divide between being loyal to others and being loyal to myself: hard to navigate. I love it here, can’t beat the weather, and have constant access to an apple cider factory, but I want a bit more. Salsa is a task that forces me to make lame dirty jokes, listen to a bunch of alcoholics, and babysit infants. No damn it, I’m tired of using my ability to make you feel good about yourself. People don’t understand the reward calculus. Quick lesson: you learn math so you can always count your money. In this respect, I learned salsa to find a girl. Guess what? I can count and have money, but I can salsa and have no girl. See, the math doesn’t lie. Hearing that race/culture comes into play as a triumph is soul-crushing, to say the least. I’ve heard so many stories about me being a great friend, which sounds an awful lot like those conversations I had in high school at 1AM. Sure, I’d be tagged with being selfish if I left, possibly a quitter by not sticking it out. Just how much patience am I expected to have? I want success, and I’ve been ready to sell my soul to the devil for years. It’s probably time that I actually did it, since heaven would bore me to insanity. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Kanye West “All of the Lights (interlude)”

Exit Wounds

Another day, another friend getting married. Another friend having kids. Another day reminded that for all those damn trophies. But no use crying over spilled milk. At least not for another month or three, since I had my one reflection last week. Pity parties are embarrassing for multiple reasons. One, your mascara runs. Two, it’s in public. Three, it’s contradictory to your persona as the cockiest bastard on the planet. Four, despite your talents (and they are numerous), you can’t beat yourself up over things you can’t change. Yet.

Or so the story goes. I can’t help but think about her, and take all the blame over what happened. I obsess over the victories that I feel slipped through my grasp. Of course, those same victories probably would have had far worse implications if I did earn them. The irony isn’t lost on me: the relationships I wanted were with girls that would have done permanent damage. But, I am a junkie for danger. I’m also a junkie for reducing people to X’s and O’s.

Case in point: salsa. I’m over as fuck. OVER AS FUCK. I’m the goose that lays the golden eggs. Being over has perks: primo parking, free food, and insight into event planning. The only perk I wanted was girls…but that didn’t happen, and when it doesn’t happen, things become interesting. The last two girls I sought were not exactly…available. Therefore, the minute my interest dies, communication breaks off. I’ll be the first to admit that this isn’t a new development; girls don’t like being pursued, so when you stop pursuing them, they fall madly in love with you. Or, they become antsy because you’re not showing them the attention they rightfully deserve. Hogwash, I say. I’m excellent at making a girl feel wanted on the hardwood by virtue of having danced for six years and being a magnetic magnet. Note to self: think of other glowing self-compliments. Anyway, when I turn off the magnetism, I turn off acknowledgement of your existence. Girls go from having 100% of my attention to barely getting a grunt in conversation they had to initiate because I was too busy fawning over my trimmed nails. I’ve been charged with ignoring girls for two weeks. I’m terribly sorry, but my roster of female friends is packed at the moment. Yes, I know that you think I would make an excellent friend. Yes, I know that I’m a spectacular conversationalist. Yes, I know that you are most comfortable with me in bachata. Yes, I know all of these things. Do you know what else I know?

I could have any girl in this club say the exact same thing about me. However, if you’re not saying what I want, you’re not meeting my qualifications for interaction. I’m not in the business to hold your bag while you shop. I’m in business for myself. I want a girlfriend, not a supposed BFF. And no, your dancing does not warrant me to reconsider, because what you call dancing isn’t dancing; it’s suck. My dancing isn’t dancing either; people consider it art. Shallow I may be, but damn if I’m not direct. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – R. Kelly “Ignition (Remix)”